Forgive Me Father

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘Mags Richardson will arrest, with a couple of uniform for back-up.’

  ‘What about Moray Ruskin? God knows the lad’s big enough to handle himself.’

  Warren frowned. ‘I’d rather not. He’s been working with me quite a bit, I don’t want Shaw to link us. Mags has been coordinating from here, he won’t make the connection to the fire investigation.’

  ‘And the interview?’

  ‘I was thinking Mags Richardson and Rachel Pymm. Rachel’s been itching to get away from the computer.’

  Grayson shifted uncomfortably. ‘Is she up to it. You know …’

  ‘I know what you mean, sir, and she is a very competent and experienced DS,’ said Warren firmly.

  ‘Of course. No question,’ said Grayson quickly.

  Friday 27th February

  Chapter 25

  With much of the abbey grounds still sealed off, Rodney Shaw was temporarily a man of leisure. He was dressed in jeans, T-shirt and slippers when DS Mags Richardson and a uniformed constable appeared on his front doorstep shortly after 8 a.m. He seemed bewildered when she arrested him on suspicion of theft and came quietly.

  Rodney Shaw hadn’t been in trouble with the law since his convictions for drug possession and wounding with intent over thirty years previously. Nevertheless, he’d learnt his lesson from that experience and after regaining his composure refused to say anything until the duty solicitor arrived.

  As agreed in the operational briefing, Warren was supervising the search on site. Any actions or discoveries would be reported to Warren first, and he would then relay them to John Grayson and Tony Sutton, who would also be watching Shaw’s interview by video-link.

  Shaw lived in a small, two-bedroom, ground-floor flat on the outskirts of Middlesbury. Travelling to the abbey would involve either driving directly through town, or in rush hour via the longer, but less-congested, bypass. In Shaw’s earlier statement about the night of the fire, he had claimed that because of the hour, he’d taken the more direct route through town, something that they now knew to be a lie.

  The execution of the search warrant had been easy, with Shaw simply leaving his keys behind as he was bundled into an unmarked car. The residents of the flat above had already left for work, but the sudden appearance of white-suited CSIs had quickly aroused interest from the neighbours across the road; the shadowy forms of a couple were clearly silhouetted in the downstairs windows. Upstairs, a young woman had thrown open her window and was hanging out of it filming the whole scene on her mobile phone. It was doubtless already on Facebook, Twitter or whatever social media sites she favoured. It probably wouldn’t be too long before somebody remembered that Rodney Shaw worked at the abbey and started to question if the death of Father Nolan was really suicide.

  The press office had been clear in their instructions: Warren’s team could refuse to answer questions (which would only serve to heighten speculation) or tell a version of the truth – but not lie outright. Consequently, the carefully crafted press release truthfully claimed that a search warrant had been executed in relation to an investigation unrelated to the death of Father Nolan.

  Warren only entered the flat after it had been videoed, temporary plastic flooring had been laid down to preserve any trace evidence in the carpet or on the kitchen floor, and the flat had been secured – after all, regardless of the stated legal basis for the search, Rodney Shaw was a suspect in an especially brutal arson and murder. Warren had no desire to end up on the wrong end of a booby trap, especially when wearing a plastic-coated paper suit

  By this point, Shaw’s solicitor had arrived and he had been led into interview suite one. Rachel Pymm was already present, setting up the PACE tape recorder that supplemented the two colour video cameras, positioned either side of the room to ensure that there were no blind-spots.

  At the other end of the building in the main CID office, DSI Grayson and DI Sutton sat either side of a large computer monitor showing a live feed from the digital recorders.

  After everyone had introduced themselves for the tape and Shaw had been reminded of his rights and the reason for his arrest, Shaw’s solicitor insisted on making a statement.

  ‘My client wishes to cooperate fully with the police, but would like it to be made clear that he has no knowledge or involvement in any thefts from his employer. Furthermore, he has no access to, or involvement with, the money taken by the abbey, and is unsure why he has been arrested.’

  Richardson acknowledged the statement and suggested that they started at the beginning.

  Back in the CID office, Grayson and Sutton watched the video feed intently.

  ‘Well he’s certainly a cool customer,’ noted Sutton. ‘He still looks more confused than guilty.’

  Shaw sat with his hands loosely folded on the table. A fit looking man with a slim build, he still had the remnants of a summer tan; his skin leathery and lined from years of outdoor working, the blue tattoos on his muscled forearms faded and indecipherable. His full head of hair was more white than grey, the ends curling slightly. A couple of days’ worth of silvery stubble covered his chin. His age could have been ten years either side of the 51 listed on his police record.

  ‘Well, if he is our man, he slopped petrol over a helpless priest and set him on fire. That takes a special kind of psycho, if you ask me. The threat of a bit of jail time for theft isn’t likely to bother him too much,’ said Grayson.

  On the screen, Shaw was confirming his hours and duties at the abbey.

  ‘This time of year it isn’t light until about seven, and it’s getting dark around five-thirty, so I tend to work eight to five, most days. I’ll probably start working a bit later when the clocks go forward next month.’

  ‘And what would your duties normally entail?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘I’m the head groundsman. I’m primarily in charge of keeping the grounds tidy. I maintain the lawns, look after the flower borders and make sure the graveyard is fit for mourners and visitors.’

  ‘What about the vegetable gardens?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘I do a bit of the heavier work, such as turning the soil with a rotavator, but most of the general tending is done by the priests.’

  ‘Such as Father Nolan?’

  ‘Yes, and Fathers Lewis and Pascutti.’ He smiled slightly. ‘They work for free and it means we can use it as a selling point when we advertise our produce; one of Gabriel’s ideas.’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship, with Deacon Baines?’ asked Pymm.

  Shaw shrugged. ‘Pretty good. Technically he’s my boss, but we’ve known each other too long for that to really matter.’

  ‘Do you do any work in the house?’

  ‘Yes, I do some odd jobs. Basic maintenance, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Do you have access to the vestry?’

  Shaw sighed. ‘Yes, Sergeant. Pretty much everyone does. And to pre-empt your next questions, yes, I know where the safe is and no, I don’t know the code.’

  ‘So you don’t have access to the takings from the shop?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about when they are transported from the shop to the safe?’

  ‘Nope, not my job. Gabriel does that in the evening when the visitors and volunteers have gone home. And again, before you ask, yes I am familiar with the routine for taking money to the bank, but no I am not involved.’

  ‘So if we were to look at the safe for your fingerprints, or look at the carpet in front of the safe for your boot prints, we wouldn’t find either?’ asked Pymm.

  For the first time since the interview started, Shaw paused.

  Seated in front of the live feeds, Sutton and Grayson held their breath.

  ‘No.’

  Grayson looked at Sutton. ‘I’d say we have a legitimate reason to seize his work boots and any other footwear. If his footprints are in front of the safe, we’ve caught him in a lie.’

  Sutton agreed and relayed the instruction to Warren.

  ‘We’ve got some
sturdy looking work boots on the back porch, a pair of trainers, some wellies and some smart leather shoes,’ responded Warren.

  ‘Seize the lot,’ instructed Grayson. ‘It won’t take long to take impressions of the soles and swab for petrol residue or trace evidence from Father Nolan.’

  Back in the interview room, Shaw was starting to get irritated.

  ‘Yes, I have previous convictions for burglary, possession of a class A drug and wounding with intent. Is this why you’ve pulled me in? Some money goes missing, so the obvious suspect is the ex-junkie. It doesn’t matter that I was barely 20 years old back then, that I haven’t had so much as a parking ticket in thirty years and been clean of drugs since the day I was sent down. It’s never going to go away, is it?’

  ‘We are pursuing a number of lines of inquiry …’ started Pymm, but Shaw was now on a roll. He pulled his sleeves back.

  ‘There you go. Take a good look. Those track lines are thirty years old. Get me a plastic cup and I’ll piss in it for you.’ He plucked at his head. ‘Here, I haven’t had a haircut since the summer. Take a strand and look for traces of recent drug-use.’

  He slumped back in his chair and folded his arms.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I’ve been clean more than half of my life. Gabriel and I run workshops and visit local schools to try and stop kids from making the same mistakes that I did. Bishop Fisher and the priests in that home gave me my life back. They trusted me and believed in me when I confessed my sins. I owe them everything, I could never steal from them.’

  He lapsed into silence.

  ‘We are all well aware of my client’s previous history,’ said the solicitor as the silence started to drag on, ‘but it is clear that he has successfully turned his life around. His story is an inspiration to many, especially young people who are heading towards the life that Mr Shaw turned his back on. I would like to suggest a short break.’

  The two officers agreed and terminated the interview.

  After Shaw had been led away by a custody sergeant for a comfort break, Sutton and Grayson joined Richardson and Pymm in the interview suite. Richardson took a swig of her water, whilst Sutton presented Pymm with a glass of her favourite tea.

  ‘I dredged a ditch out the back, because I know that’s just the way you like it.’

  Pymm said nothing, merely extending her middle finger as she took a long mouthful.

  ‘Warren has seized his footwear to see if we can catch him in a lie about him being near the safe,’ said Grayson.

  ‘What should we question him about next? His gambling, or should we go straight for the tin of money in the shed?’ asked Pymm.

  ‘Go for the gambling, there’s no rush. Besides, the search team have made some interesting discoveries,’ instructed Grayson, passing over a page from his notepad.

  Richardson raised an eyebrow. ‘You aren’t kidding.’

  * * *

  Shaw was calm again by the time he returned, and even apologised for his outburst.

  ‘You have a job to do, let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

  ‘Tell me about your wife, Rodney,’ started Pymm.

  ‘I hardly see what Mr Shaw’s private life has to do with this situation,’ rebuffed his solicitor.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind answering the question,’ said Pymm.

  Shaw shrugged. ‘If you insist. I imagine that your search team have drawn their own conclusions. My wife and I have been living apart for the past six months.’

  His admission confirmed the impression gained by Warren and the CSIs, both from his phone records and the search of his house. The small flat was covered with framed pictures of Shaw and a striking woman a few years younger in a range of poses. In more recent photos, the couple were joined first by a baby, then a toddler, and finally a gangly pre-teen, all three of them wearing T-shirts from the 2012 Olympics.

  However, the master bedroom was best described as functional, containing nothing but a cheap double-bed, with plain bedding, a flimsy-looking flat-pack wardrobe, and an upturned crate pulling double duty as a bedside table.

  ‘What about your daughter?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘She lives with her mum on the other side of town. We still all get on OK and she’s fifteen now, old enough to make her own mind up. She doesn’t like to see her old man lonely, so she stays over at the weekend. Even bakes a cake sometimes.’ His voice softened. ‘She’s a good kid.’

  That also confirmed the search team’s observations. The rear bedroom had a single bed, with a bright pink Hello Kitty bedspread. A chest of drawers was covered in make-up and a large mirror. Unlike her father’s room, the walls had been painted and decorated with posters of bands and singers that Warren had never heard of.

  ‘What does your wife do for a living?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘She’s an estate agent. Bloody useful to be honest, she found me the flat and got me a decent rate on the rent.’

  ‘Why have you and your wife split up?’ This time Pymm asked the question.

  Shaw’s eye twitched slightly, and for the first time he looked evasive.

  ‘Just grew apart, I guess.’

  ‘That’s it? No affairs or major disagreements?’ pressed Pymm.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t see the relevance of this line of questioning,’ started Shaw’s solicitor.

  Pymm ignored her.

  ‘What about money? Any financial problems?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’ asked Richardson.

  Shaw scowled. ‘We argued about it sometimes.’

  ‘About your gambling habit?’

  Shaw gave a start, before looking over at his lawyer.

  She maintained a neutral face.

  ‘I like a bit of a flutter,’ he admitted finally, ‘but I’d hardly call it a habit.’

  His body language was as defensive as his tone of voice.

  Pymm cleared her throat and pulled over the list supplied to her by Grayson.

  ‘You left your wallet behind, and our search team executed their right to examine it. In it we found a pile of receipts from bookmakers. We also found some more in a box by your bed. I’m guessing you kept them because you won. Maybe a good luck charm?’

  Shaw remained stony faced.

  ‘Not too bad. Fifty pounds on a four-to-one at Newmarket, thirty pounds on a favourite at two-to-one.’ She skimmed down a bit further. ‘This one did all right, although it was only six-to-four. Is that why you risked a hundred quid on that one?’

  Shaw said nothing.

  ‘The thing is, I know for a fact that nobody keeps up the winning over a long stretch. To mix my gambling clichés, “the house always wins”. We found forty-six winning betting slips, showing total winnings of about three-and-a-half thousand quid. How many betting slips did you screw up in disgust when your horse limped home fourth or didn’t even make it? Three grand in winnings, versus how many thousands lost?’

  Shaw fixed his gaze on the wall behind the two officers.

  ‘The dates on here are quite interesting,’ continued Pymm. ‘Some weeks there are slips from two or even three days. That suggests to me that you were a pretty frequent visitor. If I said that you visited most days, would that be fair.’

  Shaw licked his lips.

  ‘Probably.’

  His voice was so quiet that the two officers could barely hear it. Fortunately, the high gain microphones on the recording equipment were more sensitive than a typical human ear.

  ‘How much money have you lost, Rodney?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Is that why you and your wife no longer live together?’

  He nodded, unable to meet either officer’s gaze.

  Pymm glanced at Richardson, who gave a tiny nod.

  ‘Rodney, there were a number of red demands under your bed. Council tax and electricity mostly, although there was a receipt to show that you had caught up with some outstanding rent arrears.’ She paused. ‘I’m guessing they wer
e hidden because you didn’t want your daughter to find them?’

  Shaw nodded; he looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘The betting slips are mostly from a bookmaker’s on Stuart Lane, but the latest ones are a couple of streets away. Why did you switch?’

  ‘Fancied a change,’ Shaw mumbled eventually.

  ‘Really? Was that it?’

  Shaw said nothing.

  ‘Did you meet anyone in the bookie? Perhaps someone you knew?’

  Shaw stared at the tabletop.

  Richardson leant forward, her voice soft.

  ‘It’s an addiction, isn’t it? You know there are organisations that can help you, don’t you?’

  Shaw nodded.

  ‘You kicked the drugs all those years ago. I’m sure you can kick this habit. What have Bishop Fisher and the priests said?’

  Shaw mumbled again; this time Richardson asked him to repeat himself, she wasn’t sure that even the microphones would have heard him.

  ‘I haven’t told them.’

  She feigned surprise. ‘Why ever not? They forgave you before and showed you love and acceptance. Don’t you think they’d do it all again?’

  Shaw’s response was too muffled to hear all of it, but the two officers got the gist.

  ‘You’re too ashamed?’ said Pymm.

  ‘So, nobody from the abbey is aware that you have been gambling?’ asked Richardson.

  Shaw said nothing. Richardson let the pause stretch for a few seconds more, but it was clear he didn’t want to say anything more.

  ‘Why did you switch bookmakers?’ repeated Richardson.

  ‘Like I said, I just wanted to try somewhere different.’

  ‘Really? That was it? You see, I have a theory. I reckon you met someone in that bookmaker’s. Someone you knew.’ Pymm said.

  ‘Who did you bump into that made you switch bookie?’ asked Richardson.

  ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ mumbled Shaw.

  ‘Come on, Rodney, we know something happened to make you move bookie,’ said Richardson.

  ‘We can work it out from the shop’s CCTV,’ said Pymm, ‘but you can save us a lot of time and it will look good if you cooperate with us.’